


Of this I am certain

by dreamline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Disaster Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamline/pseuds/dreamline
Summary: But lately, just lately, Cas has started saying it like it’s a prayer. A supplication. Sometimes he breathes out Dean likes it’s a creed, the reverence whispering from the syllable with all the redolent quality of worship.Dean has no fucking clue what to do with it.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 151





	Of this I am certain

**Author's Note:**

> My debilitating anxiety has kept me from daring to post any Supernatural fic online for years. But then the finale aired and even my excuse for a functional brain knows I can write better than whatever that was.
> 
> So I guess I should thank the writers for helping my mental health problems now?
> 
> Dean is a disaster. It's why we love him.

Cas has said Dean’s name in innumerable ways over the years. Commanding, back when Cas was _Castiel, angel of the Lord_ , and his feelings for Dean were a confusing, distracting problem to be shoved under a mental rug and held down with piles of heavenly orders. Panicked when Dean’s gone and got himself hurt for the millionth time. Tired when Cas has forgotten to sleep again. Concerned when Dean is spiralling. Demanding when he needs to Dean to do something right now, _now_ Dean, not when you’re done bitching, actually now. Confused when Dean has said or done something Cas doesn’t understand. That one is maybe the most familiar. The one Dean finds most endearing.

He’s even had pleading, begging for Dean’s help, his forgiveness, _Dean I always come when you call._ No matter what state of angry rejection they get into, no matter how on the outs they are, Dean never wants to hear that particular inflection of his name ever again.

Since Dean got his fucking shit together and made his mouth say the words his heart has been screaming for close enough on a goddamn decade, the iterations of Cas’ take on Dean have gotten softer. There’s so much more gentleness now, the empathetic _Dean_ that Cas came out with so rarely before rolling off his tongue for everything from a near fatal knife wound to a stubbed toe. Cas has said it so fondly, _Dean_ dropping from his lips with a quirk of a smile and a sparkle in his eyes that never appears for anyone else.

But lately, just lately, he’s started saying it like it’s a prayer. A supplication. Sometimes he breathes out _Dean_ likes it’s a creed, the reverence whispering from the syllable with all the redolent quality of worship.

He’d talked about god like that back at the beginning. Daddy’s faithful little soldier, he’s talked of his father in that tone that rang with faith as unshakable as the mountains. Dean hasn’t heard anything like that utter devotion from Cas’ mouth in years, not since he rebelled, since he _fell._ Since that old certainty shattered on the ground like so much crystal, and shattered Cas’ heart along with it.

But now. But now Dean will do something utterly inconsequential like crack a dumb joke, or grab Cas’ hand to pull him up off the sofa after a long TV marathon, or grin at Cas across the war room table in the middle of planning a hunt, and Cas’ face will soften into a smile so wide and warm that Dean’s heart trips over its own beats, and Cas will breathe out just _Dean_ with all the weight and wonder of millennia of unswerving faith.

Dean has no fucking clue what to do with it.

He could cope if it were just those times. Just those brief moments where he can blush and turn his head away and play it off with a joke, or pretend he hasn’t noticed. Make some comment about the hunt. Ask if Cas wants a beer.

But Cas wouldn’t be Cas if he made things that easy. No, the bastard always has to do things the hard way. Make Dean face up to things he’d rather not. Make Dean deal with whatever the hell this is at the worst possible moments he can find.

He’s started doing it _while they’re in bed_. He’ll put his hand on Dean’s left shoulder while they’re kissing, grip onto Dean’s hair while they’re grinding against each other, gasp into the air with his eyes round as the moon and pupils blown out like supernovas while Dean’s got three fingers inside him and Dean’s bloodstream is a lava flow melting him from the inside with _want want want,_ and breathe out Dean’s name like some kind of sacrament, and Dean’s insides will twist and warp and splinter and burn because he _cannot fucking deal with this._

Dean knows Cas loves him. Hell knows why when he’s the only person in creation besides Sam who’s seen every ugly, ruined corner of Dean’s history and been party to every selfish, destructive, hurtful decision Dean’s ever made. But he knows Cas loves him. After the Empty, after everything, even he, monument to self-hatred that he is, can’t doubt that. Not with every second of Cas’ confession and death branded onto the inside of his eyelids, replaying a personalised horror movie every time he tries to sleep.

And it’s not that he doesn’t return the feeling. He _does_. Has been shoving it into a box in the back of his mind for years, taping around it with layer upon layer of alcohol and denial the more it grew and split the box at the seams. Since he ripped that box open and let it loose, it’s been a wild, uncontrollable thing. No analogy he’s ever heard can put words to it. It’s fire in his blood, a storm in his heart, a drug intoxicating his brain, blue as a summer sky, green as the spring, gold as daylight, all of them and so much more than them all at once.

But what Cas gives him _,_ this is something beyond the love Dean’s used to from the few times in his life he’s had anything to compare. This isn’t like Lisa, this isn’t like his mother. This isn’t anything like Sam. This is absolute. This is unfaltering. This is devotion on a scale that burns like a blasphemy because Dean is not, has never been, never will be worth anything _close_ to this _._

This man, this person who used to be a celestial being beyond mortal comprehension, who was crafted by god himself, however much of an arsehole _he_ turned out to be, loves him with all the force he used to bring to bear on a literal deity, and when he says Dean’s name like that, the sheer weight of that love could unravel Dean one atom at a time.

At the best of times it unsettles him, shakes something loose inside that makes him feel nervous and lucky and unworthy and weirdly blessed at once. If Cas says it in the heat of the moment, it pulls him apart and leaves him flayed open in a way wholly different to anything even forty years of hell ever managed.

***

Cas has him flat on his back. After stumbling down the corridor to Dean’s room, unable to keep their hands from sliding under clothes even with Sam barely five steps ahead of them, after the first few heated minutes where Dean had pushed Cas into the door and tried to pull off both their pyjamas without detaching himself from Cas’ mouth, Cas had shoved Dean down onto the bed, settled himself between Dean’s legs and kissed him with a slow intent that had turned Dean’s muscles to jelly. Then he’d set about minutely mapping every centimetre of Dean’s skin, starting with kissing his eyelids and marking an achingly slow trail across his face, around the line of his jaw, into the pulse point of his neck.

He’s whispering into Dean’s skin as he goes, _love you_ and _so beautiful_ and _want you so much_. Even that’s enough to get Dean blushing until his face burns. But then Cas starts saying Dean’s name instead, just _Dean_ dropped onto his body with every kiss. He sounds so fucking _reverent_ , like Dean is the most immaculate being in all of creation, like he’s in awe of Dean down into his bones.

And Dean is _already_ naked, it’s not fair, it shouldn’t be _allowed_ for Cas to strip him even further, pull his soul out while he takes off Dean’s clothes and bare every last millimetre of him to the scorching heat of that love.

Cas breathes _Dean_ into the angle of Dean’s hip, presses his fingers against where he spoke like he’s stamping the love in it into Dean’s flesh. And Dean physically cannot take it anymore.

“Cas, stop, you gotta stop.”

Cas’ hand jerks away, and Dean sucks desperate air in through his teeth, forces himself to look down.

Cas is staring at him, eyes wide and a little startled. The light of the single lamp is sparking flecks of gold in the blue of his irises, painting his skin in honey gold and shadows, and his hair is a disaster where Dean’s fingers have twined in and hung on. He’s so astonishingly beautiful that Dean can’t look at him. He tips his head to blink up at the ceiling, convulsively swallowing down the sudden nausea that rises in his throat. The wave of sickness drowns his arousal and leaves him feeling cold and too small inside his skin.

“Did I do something wrong?” Cas’ hands are still latched onto Dean’s body. A moment ago the touch was feather-light, skating over Dean’s skin in the wake of Cas’ mouth. Now his fingers tighten in a mirror of the concern that creases Cas’ brow. He hauls himself up Dean’s body to look him in the face. “Dean?”

It’s his name that does it. Again. One syllable shouldn’t be able to carry all the softness and worry and desire that Cas can put into it. It crumples Dean’s heart like tissue paper.

“You can’t say my name like that.” He pushes the words out past the solid lump of _too much too much_ blocking his throat. His voice comes out weak and wavering. “It’s like you’re praying, I… I can’t, I don’t deserve…”

“Dean.” Cas interrupts, and this time his name comes short and exasperated, but underpinned with a current of unmistakable adoration. “How many times do I have to tell and show you that you’re the _only thing_ I have faith in anymore?” He detaches a hand from Dean’s hipbone and rests his palm against Dean’s cheek. His thumb presses gently into Dean’s lower lip while his fingers run tender lines across his temple. The light touch feels like a brand on his skin.

“You can’t… you can’t say things like, like…” Dean screws his eyes shut and gasps raggedly against the razorblade slice of Cas’ affection across his heart. “You can’t love me like you fucking _worship_ me, I can’t take, I can’t, not when we’re, I’m not _worth_ that…”

He’s not even sure what he’s saying any more. He throat is burning and involuntary tears are searing his eyes, so hot he wonders for a wild second if they’ll scar when they spill. Cas just shakes his head and leans down to press his forehead hard against Dean’s own.

 _“_ Dean _”._ He murmurs. “ _Dean._ You are worth more than the universe to me. I tried to tell you before, you are _everything_ to me. This isn’t,” his hand tightens convulsively on Dean’s shoulder and Dean feels it right into his core, “this isn’t anything like what I felt for my father. I have never felt _anything_ like this in my whole life. And you make me feel more cherished than I thought was possible. I’m just trying to show you a fraction of the love I feel for you in return.”

Dean chokes a little on the words, then the tears do spill. His vision blurs and he clenches his jaw to keep a sob behind his teeth. He feels Cas touching his cheek, the whisper of a concerned _Dean_ against his lips, and his ribcage tightens like a vice.

Cas slips off him and pulls him to the side, rolling them so that they’re face to face. Cas presses them close, hooking his leg over Dean’s knee and wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and shoulders. He hums softly into Dean’s hair, runs his hand gently up and down Dean’s spine. Dean pushes his face into Cas’ shoulder, squeezes his eyes tight and tries to remember how to breathe.

He’s not sure how long they stay there. Long enough that the arm he’s lying on starts to go numb. The sheer mundanity of the tingling discomfort eventually pulls him back into himself enough to speak coherently.

“Fucking god you fuck me up,” he mumbles into the curve of Cas’ collarbone. Cas laughs a little in response, his chest rumbling against Dean’s nose.

“It’s only fair.” Cas turns Dean’s head with a firm press of his palm, fixes Dean with one of his devastatingly honest stares. The ones that make Dean feel lightheaded and half afraid. “How do you think you make _me_ feel, Dean? I told you, I was alive for millennia before I met you and never changed. I didn’t think I _could_ change. Then I met you and within weeks I was feeling things I’d never imagined and doing things I’d never dreamt of, and I didn’t understand any of it. All I understood for a long time was that I _had_ to do those things, because they were for you. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced.” He pauses, tilts his head in that achingly familiar way, shifts his other hand to rest over Dean’s heart. “And wonderful,” he adds softly. “Once I realised what it was I felt, it was wonderful too.”

Dean can’t speak for a long minute. To know that he made someone like Cas feel so intensely without even realising it had punched all the air out of his lungs the first time he heard it down in the trap room. Even now the enormity of it steals his breath and his voice every time. He swallows hard, forces himself not to look away, but to meet the open devotion in Cas’ eyes with his own.

When he finally does find his voice it’s a small thing, fragile in the quiet between them.

“Does it … does it still scare you?”

“No.” Cas doesn’t hesitate. “No.” He doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle like they do when he’s pleased. “There’s not much I’m certain of in life any more, but I am certain of this.”

Eleven years in and Dean is still floored by the absolute commitment Cas offers him. The unrelenting honesty of it blindsides him even when he thinks he knows and expects it. He should have seen it earlier, really. That level of unwavering devotion despite everything, despite Dean being _Dean_ , could never have meant anything but this. _I am certain of this._ And if Dean had just been less… _Dean,_ less wilfully obtuse, they could have had _this_ for years.

Hindsight hurts like a bitch sometimes.

“I am too you know,” Dean makes himself say, the effort like he’s having to crowbar the words out of his stubborn chest. “Certain. Of this. Us.” He rubs a hand over his face, feels the drying tear tracks against his fingers. “It’s just… a lot. Sometimes.”

The words feel feeble next to the solid certainty of Cas’ declaration. Not enough. Nothing like enough.

Cas doesn’t seem to mind. He sighs and nuzzles his nose into Dean’s hair, all fond affection. “I know.”

Despite Cas’ contentment, Dean can’t shake the feeling he hasn’t said the right thing. He chews his lip, fingers tapping against the mattress, twitchy with nervous energy. Cas just watches him, face soft and open and undemanding. There’s no expectation there, but it’s that gentle serenity that finally pulls an explanation from where it was trying to hide itself behind Dean’s infinite capacity for denial.

“It’s never been like this with anyone before,” he grumbles, half complaining and half confessing. “Having sex with you is like you’re pulling my heart out of me and putting it back different.”

Cas hums for a moment, eyes thoughtful, then he nods once. “I think that’s why it’s called making love, Dean.”

Normally Dean would groan at that, shove Cas’ arm and accuse him of talking like a sappy romance novel. The reflex reaction dies before it begins because _oh._ Oh fuck, that’s what this is. _That’s_ why Dean’s years of experience were no preparation for the way being with Cas nearly drowns him.

For a second he almost panics again, the weight of the realisation pressing on his chest and bringing his breath up short. But then Cas yawns widely, nose scrunching and fist scrubbing at his eye in a way that’s so normal and human that a sudden surge of adoration knocks the fear right out of Dean’s body.

He shouldn’t be afraid of this, he realises. Cas isn’t. Somehow, despite all that Dean’s done to him, all the pain and guilt, all the literal deaths that loving Dean has inflicted on him over the past eleven years, Cas still consciously, repeatedly trusts Dean with his heart. He still thinks Dean’s name is worth saying with all the devotion of a prayer. The least Dean can do is be brave enough to accept what Cas wants it to mean.

As if reading his mind, Cas burrows his head into the hollow of Dean’s neck, octopuses all his limbs around him and kisses Dean sleepily under his ear. “Dean,” he whispers into Dean’s skin. Just that. Just his name.

This time Dean knows exactly what to do with it. He slides his arms around Cas’ back, presses his nose into his hair and breathes in the warm, familiar smell of him. “Love you,” he mumbles into Cas’ temple. And against his neck he feels the curve of Cas’ smile.


End file.
